


Scribbles and Scars

by thescaris_NOT_onthewrongside



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Any suggestions on tags are welcome, Background Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Dadkoda in later chapters, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Aang/Katara, Minor Azula/Mai/Ty Lee, Minor Bato/Hakoda, Minor Toph/Suki (platonic), Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai's A+ Parenting, Past Child Abuse, Platonic Soulmates, Poly Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, The Gaang needs therapy, Zuko (Avatar) Needs Therapy, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, because tags are hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescaris_NOT_onthewrongside/pseuds/thescaris_NOT_onthewrongside
Summary: From the moment Mother told him about Soulmates, Zuko had been fascinated. “The Spirits take two souls and weave them together. The threads used by the Spirits take the form of marks on your skin. A Soulmate is someone who is meant to guide, love, and support you.”When the writing first appeared on Sokka’s arm, he ran to tell his mom, who sat him on her lap, and told him of the Ocean and Moon spirits, the first Soulmates, who wore each other’s marks and felt each other’s pain like an echo, who weave the souls of men together and push-pull their destinies in time with the waves. She told him that his Soulmate wasn’t meant to complete him, but to compliment him, to be his friend, his companion, and that he was to be theirs, even if the oceans and skies divided them.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 400





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wherein the marks that appear on your soulmate’s skin appear on yours as well, temporarily, and you can feel an echo of their pain. Poly & Platonic Bonds exist.
> 
> I have two wonderful betas who do not operate on this site, but if we missed something, let me know! The chapter count is tentative and could go up. This will update every other Saturday.

From the moment Mother told him about Soulmates, Zuko had been fascinated. “The Spirits take two souls and weave them together,” she explained as he curled up against her side, the night still around them save for her soft voice. “It means their destinies are all tangled up together, and the threads used by the Spirits take the form of marks on your skin. This is so your soulmate will know you from everyone else. A Soulmate is someone who is meant to guide, love, and support you, as a friend or companion; or even as a spouse.”

“Like you and Father?” The toddler’s question was punctuated by a soft yawn, and Zuko didn’t notice the way his mother’s face fell, the way her hand rubbed over her collarbone as though to scrub away the name that was branded there beneath her robes. 

“Not exactly, my love,” she murmured, but the story moved on before he could ask what she meant. Zuko only curled closer, falling asleep to the sound of his mother’s voice, never thinking to ask again. 

From then on, he focused on learning his letters, so that he could write to his own Soulmate. It was _important_ : Mother had said they would be the best friend he’d ever have, and Zuko wanted a best friend more than anything. His baby sister was still too young to be much fun after all, and he wasn’t allowed to play with the children of the staff. 

It took months to understand the basics, and almost a year to be any good, but at five years old, Zuko had learned how to write his name and a few small words, and he thought that was enough. There was no hesitation when he set the ink against his skin, scrawling a small greeting. 

For a little while, his skin remained blank, save for the words he’d written. He tried to be patient, but he was excited to talk to his new best friend. Stubbornly, Zuko tried again.

> **_Hello?_ **

There was a prickle on his arm, above the words he’d written, and a drawing slowly bled onto his skin. Laughter, giddy and rich, bubbled up from Zuko at the little drawing of the sun smiling at him, and he sprinted through the palace halls to show his mother.

Writing to his soulmate quickly became Zuko’s favorite pastime, and his Mother encouraged him with her soft smiles and softer words. He drew in her garden, sprawled on the grass beside her and showed her every new message. It was pretty clear that his new friend didn’t know their letters yet, but that was alright. Zuko wrote for both of them. 

The drawings he got in return always made him smile, even if they were more like scribbles than real drawings. Soon, his legs, arms, feet, and hands were covered in the conversations they would have- Zuko’s stories of his family and the turtle-ducks, his Soulmate’s scribbles that might have been people or skunk-bears or plants, though Zuko could rarely tell which. Every month the stories they told each other got a little easier to understand. Soon, it was almost like they had their own little language, pictures that no one understood but them, words that almost never made complete sentences, but never failed to make Zuko laugh like he’d been told one of his Uncle’s favorite tea jokes.

Zuko was seven when his father finally noticed, and the smile he gave at the drawings wasn’t at all like the one Mother wore. 

His hand was too tight around Zuko’s wrist, bruising it, and he laughed at the half-faded scribbles. For the first time that he could remember, Zuko was called ‘weak’. For the first time, he understood what it meant, too scared to fight back, too wounded to run away. 

His Father’s voice was cruel, even as he smiled. “Do you think these mean anything? Pathetic.” And it was, wasn’t it? To let scribbles make him so happy and distract him from his studies, to let them matter so much? “This is a _weakness_ , Prince Zuko. Do not let me see these marks on you again.”

But Zuko couldn’t help himself.

When he returned to his room, there was what looked like a frowning face near the bruises on his wrist, and suddenly, he agreed with his father. He’d hurt his Soulmate, his friend. This was his fault, and it couldn’t happen again. His shoulders heaved with sobs and his hands shook as he wrote, 

> **_Sorry. I’m sorry. Goodbye._ **

The tingling feeling danced up and down his arms for weeks, stilted questions and more sad drawings. There was no answer. 

Eventually, the writing stopped altogether. Zuko knew this was a good thing, really, but the ache in his chest begged to differ. And if Zuko hid in his mother’s garden for hours when the last sad-faced picture faded from his skin, that was no one else’s business.

He threw himself back into his studies, his bending, but it wasn’t enough to make his father proud. Azula never wrote on her skin, after all. She was never distracted from her schooling, and she took to bending like an iguana-seal to water, out-matching Zuko in no time. It was clear that she was the one their father took pride in, no matter how hard Zuko pushed himself- but at least there was Mother.

Until, suddenly, there wasn’t.

Only days after losing Lu Ten, the rest of Zuko’s little world fell apart. But his Father was the Fire Lord now, making Zuko the crown prince, and princes did not cry. Princes weren’t weak enough to scribble on their arms for comfort, no matter how badly they wanted to.

The world continued to turn on, shattered as it felt. Uncle Iroh returned from the war, and he kept Zuko close to his side, encouraging him as Mother once had, including him, showing pride in him. Maybe Azula was the better bender, but Zuko was learning, growing stronger every day, and it wasn’t long before he was almost his old self again- eager to please, ignoring the bruises that appeared near constantly on his skin, learning to be the son his father wanted him to be. 

He’d only ever wanted to make his Father proud, and when the war meeting came, he saw his chance. Zuko loved his nation, after all. He was loyal. Lu Ten had been loyal too, had fought and died for his nation, and Zuko wanted to know more about the world he was fighting for, the better place that the Fire Nation was creating.

Only, there was no better world for him. The Generals spoke of sending their own soldiers off to the slaughter, good and loyal men. Men like Lu Ten. Zuko couldn’t hold his tongue.

The world gave way, as he stared in horror at his father on the dueling grounds, and all Zuko could think was that he should have seen it coming. 

Something was scorched and burning, turning the air foul in Zuko’s mouth. Someone was crying, and Zuko could taste the salt of it through gasps of noxious air. Someone was on their knees sobbing, begging. Someone was on their knees screaming. He wanted to tell them to stop, that it’s loud, _Mother, it’s scaring me,_ but when he tried to force the words out-

Everything went black.

When he woke, it was to a room on a ship he didn’t know, with Uncle holding his shoulders as nausea took over. When he woke, it was to a fever and agony and the feeling of his father’s too-hot hand on his face that would never, ever go away.

The memories returned, and Zuko knew he’d only gotten what he had deserved. He had disgraced his father, the punishment was fitting, but it _hurt._ It hurt so much, and Zuko couldn’t tell how many nights he’d woken himself up screaming, the smell of charred flesh all over him, suffocating him, he couldn’t stop _crying_ -

Weak, so weak, but he couldn’t help it. For all that Uncle tried in the aftermath, he’d stood by and let it happen, and Zuko couldn’t stand him in those moments, couldn’t stand his own skin, but it wasn’t just himself he worried for. 

> **_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please forgive me._ **
> 
> **_I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m sorry._ **
> 
> **_It hurts._ **
> 
> **_I’m sorry._ **

The skin of his arms was soon inked in with apologies, until he shook so badly that holding a brush was impossible and the pain made his vision blotchy, but he had to explain. They had to understand. His Soulmate was meant to love him, forgive him, guide him. To be his best friend.

There was no answer.

Of course there wasn’t, but it still hurt to see his own words fade away, leaving a blank canvas behind. This was his fault. He deserved it. And his soulmate knew it, too, somehow. Who would want someone dishonored, disgraced, _disfigured_?

When he could walk again, all thoughts of his soulmate were shoved aside. It didn’t matter anymore. He had more important things to worry about. Going home, earning forgiveness, regaining his honor, was all that really mattered. 

His future and the future of his nation didn’t hinge on _scribbles._

He had to find the Avatar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm deeply sorry for how long this has taken and for how short it is. Y'all know how chaotic the world is right now. Future updates are coming, but will be slow going.

When the writing first appeared on Sokka’s arm, he didn’t know much about Soulmates at all. He knew his mom and dad sometimes had matching marks; however, at four years old, he’d never put much thought into  _ why _ . But then there were scribbles on his arm and his skin felt sparkly where the ink appeared. He ran to tell his mom, who smiled  _ so _ wide and hugged him close. 

“That’s your Soulmate saying ‘Hello’, sweetheart,” she laughed, and sat him on her lap. “Everyone has a bond, or even several bonds, created by the Spirits to show them that someone, somewhere, will always be capable of loving them... Let me tell you a story.”

Sitting there on her lap, his baby sister on the furs at their feet, Sokka learned about the Ocean and Moon spirits, the first Soulmates, who wore each other’s marks and felt each other’s pain like an echo. They were so drawn to one another that the tides themselves were brought into existence. They weave the souls of men together and push-pull their destinies in time with the waves. She told him that his Soulmate wasn’t meant to complete him, but to compliment him, to be his friend, his companion, and that he was to be theirs, even if the oceans and skies divided them.

When that prickling-warmth skittered across his arm again, Sokka just grinned, clambering off of his mom’s lap to go find the charcoal he used for drawing. He didn’t know his letters very well at all, but he thought it was important to show his Soulmate  _ something. _ So, he drew the sun: bright, happy, and smiling, just like he felt. 

He couldn’t read what his new friend wrote for what felt like forever, but the drawings always earned lots of new words, so he drew all the time. He could tell somehow that his pictures made his Soulmate happy. Before long, Sokka had drawn pictures for them on his arms, legs, and even his feet. 

Nearly a year later, Sokka was able to read almost all of the notes his friend would leave, and started to leave a few of his own. Things about Katara learning to walk, the food his mom would make, or throwing snowballs with the other, older boys. He preferred the drawings, though, and his friend didn’t seem to mind at all.

It became as easy as breathing, writing little notes, drawing lots of pictures. Little bumps and bruises were normal, and mostly, Sokka laughed about them, or drew a frowning face with a question mark to ask if his friend is okay. 

He was almost six when the answer stopped being ‘yes’.

He was almost six when he saw a drawing of a turtleduck on his hand and eagerly scribbled back an otter-penguin.

He was almost six when his wrist suddenly went red, then bruised, and the pain made him burst into tears. Determined to make sure his friend was alright, though, and quickly drew a frown and a question mark on that wrist, just like he always did.

He was almost six, clutching his mom’s skirt like a lifeline, when ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Goodbye’ trembled on his skin and his soulmate disappeared from his life.

He tried to write again. At first, it was every single day, every minute he could spare, filling in his arms and legs with drawings and questions, for months. His Soulmate didn’t answer. Every few hours turned into at least once a day, then once a week, then once a month, but there was no reply.

When those awful, awful marks seared their way onto his dad’s skin, onto Bato’s, before vanishing all at once, Sokka couldn’t help but think of the handprint bruise he’d gotten two years before. When his mom was found, Sokka thought he understood why his soulmate didn't answer him anymore.

He fell into his own silence.

After, he didn’t question the bruises that would show up without him noticing. The ice was slick, hunting was hard- there was no reason to think too deeply on it, and certainly no reason to jot a frowning face or question down on the skin next to it. 

At twelve years old, it had become pretty clear that Sokka wasn’t the only one with a silent soul-bond. Many people in their tribe had stopped receiving marks on their skin a long time ago. His little sister had never had any shared marks. War was an awful thing, but loss- and losing the chance to meet a soulmate- was almost as common as snowfall. Sokka’s Soulmate  _ chose _ to stop answering him, making his loss far less important. He hadn’t been upset over that in a long time.

Until the day his face began to burn.

He’d been helping Bato stretch new furs, defending his dad’s awful jokes as the older men laughed, when he felt heat rush to his face, making him sick. He stumbled away from the tanning vats, thinking that was the cause, when the heat turned into  _ pain _ , scorching across the left side of his face, fire melting through skin, muscle, bone. Screaming, he fell to his knees, scrambling for handfuls of snow to pack into the wound,  _ anything _ to stop the burning.

He was dying, he knew he was, as the icy ground rushed up to meet him.

Sokka realized he had not, in fact, died, when he woke enough to hear a rumbling voice somewhere near his feet. “Poor kid,” the voice sighed, and Sokka thought it might have been Bato, but he couldn’t tell for sure. “I remember, with Kya-” His mother’s name sent a bolt of  _ pain-hurt-loss _ through Sokka’s chest. “- but we should be glad the mark is still there, ‘Koda. It means they’re still alive, wherever they are.”   
  


_ They?  _ Sokka wanted to ask, but his tongue was dead weight and ash in his mouth, managing only a pained whine. 

Hands grasped his shoulders gently, and his father said his name, but Sokka was sinking under again before he could answer.

The next time he opened his eyes, his dad was asleep in the chair beside his cot, and Katara was on the ground beside him, holding his hand. She looked  _ awful _ , but from the pain in his face, Sokka thought he probably looked worse.

He was right. Being right all the time was  _ awful _ . 

He’d only managed one look at the blistered skin that stretched from the inner corner of his left eye back to his ear before panic and pain set in again.  _ Firebenders _ . It was unmistakable, and Sokka’s head rang with one endless refrain:  _ Just like mom. They were hurt, just like mom. _

A firebender had scarred his soulmate, and Sokka could feel their agony like an echo, like his father had with his mother. People like that weren’t human, they were  _ monsters. _

When the frantic apologies woke him late that night, Sokka feared that maybe he was a monster too.  _ ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’  _ it said, barely legible across his arm.  _ I didn’t mean to.  _ It stuck in his head.  _ I.  _

The moment it clicked into place, Sokka broke into hysterical laughter, into tears that dissolved into retching from the pain. He had known the Spirits were cruel from the moment his mother had died, but this? ‘Cruel’ was too kind a word. His soulmate was  _ apologizing.  _ His  _ soulmate _ had caused the burn. The match to his soul, the reflection of himself, was one of  _ them _ . A murderer, a monster with the mark to prove it, one they’d given Sokka too. 

It took two weeks for the blistering to fade from Sokka’s skin. He refused to look at it again, but he couldn’t forget it if he tried. When it had finally healed, he told Katara, Gran-Gran, his dad, anyone who asked, the truth: His soulmate was dead.

And as far as Sokka was concerned, they were.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this installment! If you have any questions, hit me up on tumblr @thescaris-not-onthewrongside and I will be glad to answer them. Comments and Kudos are appreciated! I promise that our endgame here is a happy one, and hope you'll stick with me for this story. <3


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